


the moon above you and the streets below

by WilderWoods



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Cuddling & Snuggling, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Nothing explicit until chapter 2, Poetic, soft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-26 08:48:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19002406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WilderWoods/pseuds/WilderWoods
Summary: In a run-down apartment in Bucharest, on the 14th floor of a building with no elevator,  James Buchanan Barnes remembers. He remembers being called “Bucky”.  He remembers newspaper-stuffed shoes. He remembers a woman named Sarah, who was always kind to him. He remembers pale, smooth skin under his palms, and ribs jutting out like the jetties in Jersey jut into the sea. He remembers soft, blond hair tickling his nose, a kiss placed on the top of a head, the squeeze of two hands interlocked. He remembers. He remembers, and he lets himself cry.





	the moon above you and the streets below

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! This was originally going to be one chapter but I just couldn't get the flow right, so watch out for a second part (with smut) in the next few days!

In a run-down apartment in Bucharest, on the 14th floor of a building with no elevator,  James Buchanan Barnes remembers. He remembers being called “Bucky”. He remembers newspaper-stuffed shoes. He remembers a woman named Sarah, who was always kind to him. He remembers pale, smooth skin under his palms, and ribs jutting out like the jetties in Jersey jut into the sea. He remembers soft, blond hair tickling his nose, a kiss placed on the top of a head, the squeeze of two hands interlocked. He remembers. He remembers, and he lets himself cry.

Steve Rogers is on a wild goose chase, and he remembers, too. He remembers a charming voice calling out “Stevie!”, and even in memory, he can hear that smirk. Remembers what it felt like to be cold and hot at the same time, Bucky curled up behind him on the mattress they didn’t have to share but chose to anyway. He recalls lips on his shoulders, the ghost of feelings never acted upon, and a hand resting in the dip of his waist. Remembers laughing, and remembers his own hands covered in charcoal, flying over a scrap of paper in an effort to capture the simple beauty of Bucky Barnes sleeping. He remembers, and he keeps looking.

Bucky remembers calling out for Steve as he was strapped to a cold, unforgiving table in Azzano, wanting nothing more than to hold him one more time. Remembers thinking he was going to die and leave Stevie all alone again. Remembers tears leaking from the corners of his eyes and praying that he and Steve would both be okay.  Remembers thinking he was hallucinating when that muscular, healthy, strong Steve showed up to rescue him. He remembers that awful acidic jealousy he felt, watching Peggy Carter flirt with _his_ Stevie. He remembers sleeping in his own tent that night instead of Steve’s. Remembers how when he woke up it was to Steve rubbing a thumb across his cheek, a wordless reminder that they belonged to each other even if they couldn’t do anything to show it.

Steve Rogers remembers the single worst moment of his life, when he watched his best friend, the love of his life, fall off a train on the side of a mountain to what, in any other world. would surely be his death. He remembers the pit of dread that opened in his stomach, sucking in every bit of happiness he thought he had. He remembers crying until there were no more tears, throwing up until he was only dry-heaving, overcome by grief. Remembers swearing to kill every last one who had anything to do with it. Chuckling as he remembers that he still hasn’t made good on that promise. Steve remembers the haunted look lingering behind those blue eyes. Remembers that underneath the cold stare of a brainwashed assassin lurked a tired, scared kid from Brooklyn. Remembers the words that broke his heart all over again: “Who the hell is Bucky?”

Bucky lies low. He wears a hat, hides his hand, buys plums at the market. He reads books and tries to remember who he used to be. He writes things down. Wonders if Steve will show up. He’s getting worried, but he holds onto the hope that Steve will always show up.

And then one day, he does. A quiet knock on the apartment door has Bucky suspicious, on edge. But then he thinks that Hydra probably wouldn’t give him the courtesy of knocking on his door before busting it down. So he rises from his spot at the tiny kitchen table, where he sits on a rickety chair definitely not made for a super soldier assassin and crosses the room. With care, he undoes the deadbolt, the chain, the lock on the doorknob. He slowly pulls the door open, and standing there is _Steve_.

He’s wearing dark jeans that mold around his thighs in a delicious way, a blue t-shirt that looks like it might be three sizes too small, and a leather jacket that pulls across his broad shoulders just enough. He looks  _incredible._

“Steve,” Bucky breathes out, voice a shadow of all he is feeling.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve says, and Bucky thinks it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard in his entire goddamn life. “I thought you were dead.”

Tears well up in Bucky’s eyes. Another memory reveals itself from inside the cloud of years of torture and memory wipes. “I thought you were smaller,” he says.

And without grace, he throws himself at Steve, wraps his arms around his middle, holds on for dear life. There’s a pause, and it seems like time itself has stopped. The earth has stopped turning. Bucky stops breathing.

Then, arms. Big, strong, warm arms wrapping themselves around Bucky’s figure. Steve’s arms, holding him to the broad expanse of Steve’s chest. “God, I missed you,” he whispers. Bucky says nothing, just holds on. They stand there for an inordinate amount of time before Bucky finally finds it within himself to let go, pulling Steve inside and shutting the door behind him.

“It’s good to see you,” says Steve.

“Yeah,” says Bucky, mouth dry. Steve.

Steve. He’s here, and he’s standing right in front of Bucky, hands in his pockets, taking up space in _Bucky's_ apartment like it’s the most ordinary thing in the world. Bucky doesn’t know how to handle it. He wipes his hands on his pants and awkwardly stands in place, feeling the floor through the hole in the bottom of his right sock. He keeps his eyes trained on the floor. God, it’s been so  _long._

“Hey,” says Steve, in the tone of voice one might use with a wounded wild animal. “It’s just me. Do you want me to leave? I know I didn’t ask or anything before I came here, but I didn’t know how–”

“Please don’t go,” Bucky says, voice barely above a whisper.

“Okay,” says Steve, and he takes a few steps to close the gap between them. He takes Bucky’s hands in his. “I’m not going anywhere.” Steve reaches up to cup Bucky’s jaw, fingers gently running over the few days worth of stubble that has grown there. “Never again. Never without you.” Bucky closes his eyes and melts into the touch, into the feeling of being handled so gently. He hasn’t been touched like this in a long, long time.

It takes him a few moments to gather his words. When he finds them, he asks for one simple thing. “Stevie, will you hold me?”

Steve melts. “Of course, Buck.”

Steve peels off his jacket and drapes it over a kitchen chair, toes off his shoes, and joins Bucky on the mattress under the window. He gathers Bucky into his arms, holds him against his chest, rubs a broad palm again the expanse of Bucky’s back. Drops a kiss on the top of Bucky’s head. He looks around the small apartment. There’s not much to see if he’s being completely honest, but he wants to learn. Wants to know about this version of Bucky. There’s a bookshelf on the opposite wall. There are some books in it, but what catches Steve’s eye more are the newspapers. There are a lot of them, stacked up neatly in piles on the shelf. A quick glance into the kitchen reveals a small table with three chairs, a towel draped over one and a bowl of plums on the table. The walls are arrayed in a hideous floral wallpaper that Steve tries to ignore.

Bucky has a hand wrapped in the front of Steve’s shirt, gripping the fabric tightly. His face is buried in the space between Steve’s neck and shoulder, breathing in the smell of him and allowing a sense of peace to finally wash over him after months on the run and hiding from Hydra. He drifts off to sleep, and he doesn’t dream.

 


End file.
